Candles
by Bellsie805
Summary: Hanukkah with Cuddy and Wilson.


Title: Candles

Author: Bellsie

Rating: PG-13

Disclaimer: Not mine.

Pairing: Cuddy/Wilson

Summary: And this is how they celebrate.

Author's Note: A Hanukkah fic. Playing with my style here a little bit because I liked how Hemingway did those short, declarative sentences in _The Sun Also Rises_.

_Baruch atah Adonai, Eloheinu melech ha-olam, asher kid'shanu b'mitzvotav v'tzivanu l'hadlik neir (shel) chanukah._

Wilson's wives were never Jewish. He married a Catholic, a Protestant, and a Methodist. Lisa Cuddy's father was Jewish and her mother was a Catholic. She celebrates Hanukkah, Christmas, Easter, and Yom Kippur.

Neither likes to absolve their sins.

;';

Every year, at Hanukkah, Wilson comes to Cuddy's house and he brings along a box of Hanukkah candles. Depending on where he got them, they can be white and blue or blue, red, and yellow. He brings dreidels. She has the Noah's ark menorah and the chocolate gelt.

This is how they celebrate the miracle.

;';

A very long time ago, the Jews were victorious over Antiochus IV. They planned on rededicating the synagogue. They had only enough oil to keep the lights in the Temple going for one night.

The oil lasted for eight nights.

A miracle.

;';

Cuddy sets the menorah down on the table. She takes out her matches. Wilson brings her the candles. She sticks each candle in its holder and lights a match. She lights the Shamus. Wilson knows more Hebrew than Cuddy does and it is he who recites the prayer. He does it in a measured voice. Cuddy's hand moves and lights all of the candles. She replaces the Shamus. The prayer ends.

He takes her hands.

"You're hands are cold."

"I'm always cold."

"Which one do you think'll burn out first?"

"The giraffe."

"I don't think so. I go for the lamb."

"You always pick the lamb."

"And I always want the giraffe. I could've been an ass about it and made you take the lamb."

She smiles. He lifts her hands to his mouth. His eyes close and he kisses her knuckles.

(Ten knuckles. Eight days.)

;';

It is later. She watches as the candles burn. There isn't any wax left. Only wicks. One of the orange flames flickers and laps at the side of its hole in the menorah. Small flame. Tiny flame. It grasps at the edges. It tries to gain purchase by sucking on the old wax. Melted wax. Forgotten wax. She watches it.

"Candles are almost done."

"Are they?"

"Yeah. Looks like the giraffe wins."

"You win again."

"I know."

"Why don't you change your choice then? There was a ton to choose from."

"I always like the lamb."

And they're burning, burning, burning, and incurring no resistance to their final destination of thin smoke and acrid smell. They keep burning and there's an end and there's an end and they try to survive by saving themselves, by clinging to memories of candles burned, by clutching at the ghosts of wicks gone past, by, by, by…

A candle goes out and smoke appears. Smoke rises. It twists. It floats to the ceiling. It leaves plumes as it advances. It climbs. Smoke, gray smoke, flits with the stucco-ed plaster. It disappears.

The rest continue to burn and to disintegrate in front of their eyes. The yellow-almost-white flames transform into round, puffy blue ones. They remind of her babies wrapped up in blankets, bundled against the wind. But these things are dying, dying, and she's crying, crying…

"Lisa?"

A hand to her back. Small circles rubbed. Comfort instilled. Lisa shivers. James comforts. Circles are infinite. They're round.

But the candles keep burning and her tears keep flowing and there are questions unasked and statements undeclared. Sometimes it's the words unspoken that are more dangerous than the words that are verbalized. English is glorious and has verbs for every action, adjectives for every feeling. But English is fallible and is full of confusion, full of complications, full of misinterpretations…mostly brought on by the scary sound of silence. (Because comfortable silences are myths and legends and she doesn't invest in stupid ideas and superstitions any more.)

"Oh, Lisa. Are you okay?"

James is kind. Dr. Wilson is nice. He cares. He works hard. He does his job well. He is a bad husband. He likes Lisa Cuddy. He loves Lisa Cuddy.

(Notice the truths and lies sprinkled throughout these statements like salt and pepper. Notice the unseen inflections, the unknown invocations. She notices.)

The candles burn out (finally) and they're illuminated in the darkness. He moves his arms around her, encircles her, ensnares. He traps her.

She lets him because she's tired of being strong and she's tired of being lonely. They've done this for years now, where they've lit these candles of pretty, primary colors, of blue and white, and then proceeded to wonder why they aren't together. He's too nice—but a streak of evil runs through his persona. She's too mean—but a streak of kindness runs through her soul. His interior is her façade and her disguise is his inside. They're like those Tetris blocks that are reversed. The same…different.

And James suffers from the affliction called "attention" and when one wife can't give it to him, he moves on to another one. Attention, and the need for it, is as much of a disease as the cancer he treats. He strives to hear three words that sometimes are hard for his wives to express—_he's had so many women before me…how can he love me? _

And Lisa is felled by her strength. Lisa's mother always called the times when Lisa hung out with her guy friends "dates" because in her heart somewhere, Lisa knows that her mother hoped that her daughter wouldn't grow up to be a sarcastic spinster. She had hoped that she'd see grandchildren before death. Well, Lisa got a job. She had a baby. That'd be her hospital (but mothers don't understand careers and fascination with inanimate objects).

So here they are again. It's late December. Time changes every year. Partners change. Candles bought are bright, shiny, new colors. They pick a new spot.

But when the candles heat the leftover wax coating the faces of the animal candleholders Lisa can't help but notice that the sheen looks like so many tears…

_Blessed art thou, Lord our God, King of the universe, who created the Festival of Lights._


End file.
